Pride and Prejudice
by Isys
Summary: [Faramir/Elrond] Faramir is sent instead of Boromir to the Council of Elrond. **Awarded "Honorable Mention" in Rhysenn's Alliance Challenge**


**Title: Pride and Prejudice**

**Author: **Isys (inner_frostbite@hotmail.com)

**Rating: **PG

**Genre/s: **Angst, Love/Hate,  Semi-AU, movie and book canon

**Pairing: **Elrond/Faramir

**Summary:** Faramir instead of Boromir is sent to represent Gondor in the Council of Elrond.

**Notes: **This story is especially written for submission to Rhysenn's Alliance Fic Challenge, and follows the chronology of the movie and the facts stated in the books.

***

Imladris - the land that they called Rivendell - was just as beautiful as the tales of Men had described - a dream taken right out of ancient memory, so rich and vivid that one could've easily identified it as a dwelling-place of Elves. Everything seemed to exude such - every plant root, every crevice of the rocks, and even the refreshing sound of rushing water was a perfect epitome of what the Valar must have imagined, or even more. 

It was Faramir's first time to set foot in this strange new land, and the weariness of traveling seemed to have lifted from his shoulders the moment he beheld the serenity of Rivendell, so at solace and peace that everything seemed to breathe a life of its own - down to the freshly fallen leaves strewn at his feet, tinged gold like the sky at early moments of dawn.

The place was truly breathtaking. And at that very moment, Faramir's doubts at coming to Lord Elrond's home to represent Gondor at his father's bidding vanished into the white stream of river crashing upon stone. Rivendell was certainly a place worth remembering... but a question tugged at his mind as he recalled his father's orders to journey forth to Imladris. Faramir had hesitated, obviously unfamiliar with the place, and had had to sift through piles of maps just to find it. He had found the kingdom on one of the maps near the very bottom of the pile, inked in swift black strokes so long embedded on the aging parchment that even water could not blur it. It was very, very old, and it gave him the impression that it had been untouched by men for many years.

And now, as he and his men dismounted their horses and felt the freshness of the ground at their feet, Faramir couldn't understand any more than he did back then. How could such a beautiful place lie so quiet and hidden from the reaches of men, completely unperturbed by the sands of Time?

He was so deep in his ponderings that he did not notice a figure emerge from a hidden archway. It was an Elf, as he had no trouble of recognizing the characteristic poise and grace inherent even in their slightest gestures.

The Elf spoke in the Common Tongue for their benefit. "Has your company ventured forth for my lord Elrond's council?" he inquired.

Faramir nodded in reply. "Truly we have."

"Come this way, then." The Elf bowed, leading them past the gateway.

The inside was no less beautiful than it was outside. The Elf led them through a narrow arch bridge passing over a clear strip of the stream, past a labyrinth of trees, and finally through a towering arch carved and molded with solid gold. From then, each hallway they passed seemed to possess a bit of the sun's rays, glowing warmly and iridescently, and was held up by gallant columns of marble and bronze. The entire castle itself told an impressive history, from the sculpted treasures and glass-encased swords to the images of battle held frozen on the wall's paintings. The tiny inscriptions were written in Elvish, but he did not need to decipher it to know the significance it must have held for the Elves. It was teaching him more than the ancient scrolls back home ever had.

Faramir and his company were introduced to Elrond, and, although Faramir could see that he was greatly pleased at their arrival, there was a distant - almost skeptical - look in his eyes as he studied Faramir and his companions thoughtfully. He seemed to be judging them even as he spoke, his unwavering gaze making Faramir feel strangely transparent as crystalline glass. 

He knew at the moment the Elf appeared that this was the lord of Rivendell - Elrond's manner exuded great energy and his immortality shone through the ageless wisdom in his eyes. His stature was powerful and commanding, and his words held Time itself. His voice had a hard edge to it, but received Faramir pleasantly enough and welcomed them to see the castle for themselves while they waited for the others to arrive

After the brief meeting, Faramir and his company were granted to spend the remaining time with whatever they wished, and Faramir, still slightly pensive over their welcome, wandered through one of the more deserted passages. Despite its emptiness, it was still lavishly clean and smelled of flowers in the springtime. Drawn by the sweetness of the atmosphere, Faramir walked through the wide hallway, his eyes flickering past the portraits and ornaments decorating the walls.

Then Faramir blinked, and took a step backward to study one of the paintings more intently. It had the haunting bearing of age, just like most of the others, but seemed to draw in everything else in the room like a breathless chasm.

It was a portrait of five Elves, all dressed in fine robes befitting royalty, and indeed they looked magnificent that the background appeared to fade next to them. Three males, two females - and one of the males was vaguely recognizable as Elrond. His eyebrows were drawn in their usual severe expression, but it was not possible to miss the smile in his eyes. Standing next to him was a very beautiful woman, her pale blond hair spilling freely across her shoulders. And before them were three much younger - Faramir had no trouble guessing that these were their children.

All of them were smiling and happy. Even Elrond. The difference it made with the Elrond he had just met was astonishing. How could it have possibly been - 

Faramir snapped out of the reverie as he heard two voices speaking somewhere in the next room. The mention of the One Ring aroused his curiosity and he edged towards the closest pillar. One of the voices he knew was Elrond; the other he could not identify.

"The time of the Elves is over; my people are leaving these shores," he heard Elrond say. "On whom will you look to when we are gone?" The voice grew considerably cynical and disbelieving. "The Dwarves? They all but hide in their mountains, overcome with greed for riches - what are the troubles of others to them?" Faramir flinched slightly at the disapproval in his tone.

The latter spoke, his voice quiet but resolute. "It is men, on whom we must place our hope."

"Men," Elrond repeated, saying it as though it were such an abominable word. "Men are weak."

The harsh judgment frayed Faramir's nerves, and he tensed like a cat primed for battle but, although a guilty feeling gnawed at him inside for eavesdropping, he stayed still to listen as Elrond recounted the familiar history of Isildur, son of Elendil. He was, however, astounded when he learned of Elrond's role - how he had persuaded Isildur to cast the Ring the heart of Mount Doom, and how his wisdom went unheeded. Never had Faramir heard of this before.

But he knew one thing. The lord of Rivendell - the powerful, ageless noble who had called upon every race to unite against the evil of the Ring - did not trust them. He could not, and probably wouldn't ever again. 

Frustration threatened to overwhelm him. What then did he ever come to Imladris for?

They exchanged a few last words before the other person left, leaving Elrond alone with his thoughts. Thinking that he had heard enough, Faramir followed suit, stealthily walking away as noiselessly as he could, keeping his footfalls light but brisk. 

But Faramir had not gone far when Elrond - who was not an Elf for nothing - immediately noticed that he was not alone.

***

Elrond's throat constricted at the realization of what the Man must have overheard. His eyes narrowed. "How much have you heard?" he asked sharply.

It must have momentarily crossed Faramir's mind to deny, but then he held his ground, clearly not wanting to give more reason for the Elf to deign in the weakness of the race of Men. Elrond watched, half in suspicion and amusement as Faramir stood defiantly, refusing to let his pride wallow in Elrond's words. "Enough," he answered quietly. "to know how little faith you have in us."

Elrond was mildly surprised at the boldness in his voice and dared to challenge it. "You know not of what you speak of."

"Do I?" Faramir said, his voice accusing yet also questioning. "I certainly know what I have heard. Your words have not fallen on deaf ears, my lord."

This time the distinct resentment was painfully clear, the statement had stung, partly from the irrefutable truth behind Faramir's words, and the harsh blow it dealt upon him. And suddenly, haunting memories of all the years gone by - those years of Sauron's cruel dominion that had been unjustly rewarded with the survival of the One Ring - came back to him. His back was rigid with withheld fury and frustration. Those were but mere memories, but had been painfully immortalized and severely repressed.

"And they do not come from one with blind eyes," Elrond said. It had been long since he had felt true anger, and the raw emotion almost surprised him. "Do not deny it - I have spoken the truth and it will deem better for you to know than to flounder in lies and half-realities that will only lead you to folly."

Faramir stiffened. "Why do you do this?" he asked. "Why can you not let go of the mistakes of the past? Middle-Earth is upon the brink of destruction; how can we save it if you still harbor misgivings of things that can no longer be altered?"

"Do you think that my convictions stem from nothing?"

"Nay, my lord," Faramir replied softly. "But they are rooted on naught that is within our power to change now."

Elrond sighed, and, instead of replying, turned away, resting his hands on the marbled terrace of the balcony. The Man had been so very, very right, but then he was also so very, very young, nothing more than a child to his eyes. So worldly yet utterly innocent sometimes that he made Elrond aware of the great many years between them. But then, it was this boundary of age that had forsaken them - it was the will of the Elves and the submission of Men - that had left them hanging on such a delicate thread. "Noble are your words," he said instead.

The obvious refute did not go by unnoticed. "Yet you do not believe in me," said Faramir, the disappointment evident in his voice. "How is it, my lord, that you can so easily pardon the wrongs of your own kin, but you withhold forgiveness from us? Don't we all live in the same world?"

"It is in myself whether to condone mistakes or hold them bound," said Elrond, a hint of defense present. "It is judgment."

"I much prefer," Faramir said bitterly. "to call it ignorance."

A terrible mist of silence hung like a veil, heavy and suffocating, as Faramir's words tore through deep, savagely stirring the long-kept turbulence inside. In the span of a heartbeat, flashes of centuries past flooded back, fast and furious like the crest of a raging tide, licked with tongues of fire. 

Something within Elrond snapped, and before he could contain himself, his hand had lashed out and struck Faramir hard across his face, whipping his head to one side and leaving an angry red mark in its wake.

His eyes were ablaze, and his hand hung shaking by his side, the sharp sting still lingering on his palm, an unvoiced reminder of what he had just done. The whole affair lasted no longer than seconds, but Elrond knew, with growing alarm and regret as he saw the streak of scarlet against pale skin, how long the harsh blow would remain, and how close it had cut through.

Had he further brought about the ruin of the fragile alliance left between men and Elves - this time for good? 

Faramir stood motionless, stunned, the injury both on his face and in his eyes speaking volumes. The sore handprint was clearly and painfully visible that Elrond couldn't bear to see it there. He turned away once more, clenching his fist as thought desperately willing to claim his unforgivable act back.

To his sheer disbelief, the man was smiling.

"You need not regret that, my lord," he said, bowing quietly. He turned to leave, but then stopped to say, "If I have to pay that small price, then it will be a chance I'm willing to take."

Faramir left, his footsteps gradually fading away.

Gaze stricken and remorseful, Elrond watched Faramir leave. It was impressive, seeing his head still held up, dignity unscathed, despite what had just come to pass. The Man would have made a remarkable Elf, thought Elrond to himself, both amused and sad.

A terrible feeling of brokenness washed over him. Was this it - was this a mere specter of the unstoppable force that the ring could possibly wield and that they had to contend with? Such a simple object, and it had already destroyed so much - men, Elves, even the wisest of the Istari - and now even those that could not be seen. One by one, the allegiances of old that had once held so strong were falling apart, and he was helplessly watching them fail.

He now knew what to do.

His resolve was quietly firm - he would do everything within his power to destroy the walls left between them. Defeated alliances, broken friendships... and even the smallest of wounds of misunderstanding could not be left unhealed. The ring had to be destroyed. For Middle-Earth, and for Elves.

And for men.

***

_It is in Men, in whom we must place our hope._

His wandering feet led him to one of the darker chambers, dimly lit and deserted yet strangely compelling, silently beckoning him to come forward.

_Men are weak._

Elrond's words, although they were a mere echo in Faramir's troubled thoughts, stung like poison on an open wound. He could still hear his displeasure, feel the sharp slap of his hand against his face. Feeling utterly drained, he followed the unspoken urge to enter the room.

The atmosphere itself within the doors felt very, very old - so ancient and unused - a solemn grave unvisited for years. The only source of brightness was the pale beam of light filtering through an open window, coming to rest upon a marble statue. Its head was bowed, as though in hopeless anguish, and its hands were extended and carried a tray laden with cloth.

And, not unlike everything else in the room, it was heavily veiled with dust. But, not like everything else, it still possessed an ethereal presence that still seemed to draw long, laborious breaths. It did not take long for Faramir to recognize the object bore by the statue.

So this was the sword Narsil - or what was left of it - the legendary weapon that had cut the ring from the Dark Lord's hand, finally silencing the evil threatening the people of Middle-Earth.

But it had not been for forever.

_It is because of Men that the ring survives._

Did he speak the truth, Faramir wondered? From the beginning, never had he any doubts of the reality of what Elrond had said. It was no lie, but the reality of it stung just the same.

With one trembling hand he reached out for the hilt of the sword, barely stifling a gasp of surprise as the icy coldness of the metal pricked at his fingers. He stared at the hilt. It was free of any fingerprints or smudges - or any sign that it had ever been held for ages - just the grainy touch of fine dust. Faramir raised the sword before him, its pointed shadow silhouetted against the painting of Isildur, the very same sword raised in vengeful defiance.

However, the gleaming two-dimensional emblem bore no resemblance to its solid counterpart. The one on the painting was stained with a mixture of dried blood and earth, but stood out with glittering pride at serving its just purpose. The one in Faramir's hands had the deathly look of restlessness. Even the statue bearing it seemed lifeless with indifference.

"Still so sharp," he whispered, running one finger across its length. "yet... seeming nothing more than an unwanted memory."

"It certainly is, most unfortunately," came an unbidden voice from behind him.

Faramir turned so suddenly that the blade in his hand struck his palm with enough force to draw blood. He was no less shocked to see Elrond, standing by the door, so noiseless that Faramir failed to notice his presence. The Man tensed visibly, his hold on the hilt tightening until his knuckles paled.

"You distrust me," the lord of Rivendell said quietly, his tone both contrite yet affirming Faramir's unspoken apprehension. Faramir said nothing.

"I do not blame you. But this I ask of you - to cast your wariness aside for this moment. I come not to rebuke you, as I had wrongly done before, but to ask for your forgiveness."

At those words Faramir's hand loosened on the sword hilt. He reverently returned it to its tray, flicking his good hand one brief time to rid it of the dust. The slight gesture did not escape the Elf's keen eyes. "I know," Elrond said almost ruefully. "Too long has it been that my hands nor my eyes have ever cast upon this sword, and time has clearly caught up with it." He finally met Faramir's searching gaze, his eyes awed at the grace and befitting poise that never seemed to desert the Elf even as he asked for forgiveness. His voice was strong and mellifluous, but the sincerity of the apology never wavered. "I have been blind, as you have said, but if you shall allow me..."

He held out one hand from beneath the swathes of his sleeve.

Though the sentence had trailed off, Faramir saw and understood the offering plea in Elrond's eyes, the usually serious mask characteristic of nobility finally slipping away. Faramir slowly approached, descending the steps of the pedestal until they were face to face, and the silent relief in Elrond's eyes melted the rest of his wariness.

"Hold out your hand," Elrond said.

Still wordless, Faramir lifted his injured hand, the scarlet trail of blood clearly visible against his pale palm. Elrond extended his own, the graceful fingers wrapping gently around Faramir's.

It was a contact neither one had felt before - fleeting emotion not even the songs of the Elves could possibly speak of. It was a healing of two, the avowal of trust and forgiveness sealed between the heated touch of skin against skin.

Faramir realized that he had closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the wound had disappeared. Even the trapped atmosphere of the room seemed to dissolve, dissipating the pains of the past and relishing the soothing feel of the present.

"Thank you," was all he could say, but he meant every word.

"It is not I whom you should thank," Elrond amended, his hand still resting on Faramir's. "Had you not come to free me from my disillusions, I would still be trapped in my blindness up to this moment."

"I am as much to blame," Faramir said quietly. "I should not have been so swift to judge you. You have lived far longer, braved through worse perils than I have. Your wisdom further surpasses mine - I was wrong to distrust you ere I knew what you have been through."

A rare genuine smile flitted past the normally austere features, and Faramir marveled at how much of the admired and preserved natural Elven beauty shone through when he did. Of course, every gesture seemed to exude such, but the long-forgotten smile seemed to bring it forth from the yellowing pages of folk legends to reality. Faramir held the image close to his heart - for the first time, he could see the resemblance between Elrond and the Elf he had seen in the portrait - wishing he could immortalize the exquisiteness he was seeing now.

As though the same thought was on Elrond's mind, the Elf reached forward to rest one finger on Faramir's lips, his touch feather-light as he traced the line of his jaw. "You should smile more oft," he said softly, his fingers brushing against the cheek that he himself had bruised earlier. But Faramir felt no pain as Elrond touched his face - only a tranquil, soothing presence, as if everything would be all right.

He looked up, seeking Elrond's eyes, and saw that they were filled with sadness and regret. The pained expression in them tore at Faramir's heart

"If we only had more time," sighed Elrond wistfully. "But its will is clearly against us. Try as I may not to dwell on it, it will soon come. The time of the Elves is over, dear friend - soon the shadows of change will take us to the West, where we will forever pass out of the knowledge of the present, an old myth long forgotten."

Faramir felt tears sting the backs of his eyes at the sorrow and grief in his voice, and he found himself enveloping the Elf in a tender embrace. "Nay, my lord," he said, his words holding the fierce certainty of a promise. "No matter what will time may have, or where the shadows bring you - never will your kind perish in the memories of my people."

***

The Council had already decided on the Fellowship - and in less than a day, Faramir and his new companions would be leaving for south. Although he felt comforted in the union of the races to save their fates, a strange sadness and nostalgia overwhelmed him. He had only stayed in Rivendell for about a month, but already he felt more at comfort and peace than ever. 

He ran his fingers absently against the Horn of Gondor - the silvery heirloom so much a part of himself as his own hands were - and remembered his father, the lord Denethor and steward of Minas Tirith. He winced slightly, torn between the choice of fulfilling his father's bidding to represent Men in the quest to stop the Dark Lord, and to stay in Rivendell. It was the one place that had ever come so close to being called home.

Not a glimpse of Lord Elrond had he seen since the council, but his touch left fleeting imprints both in his hands and mind. Faramir glanced at his palm where the sword had cut him. All that was left of it was a faint scar - and the lasting presence of Elven touch that he knew would always linger. But ever passing minute seemed to bring it into the further reaches of his mind, where it would soon exist only as a memory.

The last hours came and went, until finally he found himself standing in the very same grounds where he'd arrived at. Slowly, as though every movement required his sheer will, he sheathed his sword, strapping it firmly to his waist.

He reached for the Horn of Gondor, only to find an empty space where it once sat. Startled, he turned suddenly as a flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye.

Elrond's eyebrows quirked, as though amused at the Man's alertness. The horn was in his hands, the luxurious sleeve of his robes caressing its polished curves.

"I see that nothing ever escapes your keenness," Elrond commented. He approached, his long yet guilelessly graceful strides taking him to Faramir's side in moments. "Forgive me, but I could think not of other ways to ask for a moment of your time ere you depart."

Faramir was further surprised, but he felt in no position to argue, and merely followed.

Elrond led him through a familiar labyrinth of passageways, coming to stop before a conspicuous door. It was the very same door sealing the resting place of the shards of Narsil. Faramir knew this place all too well - for it haunted him, both in dreaming and waking.

He stepped inside, his footfalls sharp and brisk next to Elrond's light ones. Nothing had seemed to change since he had last been inside - it still smelled faintly of trapped, aging air and the columns were still covered with a thin layer of dust. Elrond drew the curtain obscuring the window open, allowing light to flood the room.

The darkness was suddenly swallowed. Faramir blinked, almost blinded by the sudden burst of light.

"I wanted to show you something," he heard Elrond say. A gentle grip on his arm slowly turned him around to where he knew the sword lay and he stifled a small sigh, knowing what he would see - the priceless fortune of Middle-Earth so long isolated that its every notch was caked with dust.

He opened his eyes, and nearly cried out.

The sword was gleaming, its metal sides shining like mirrors. Even the old cloth had been replaced with a crisp white one, and the statue had lost its deadened, cheerless look, carrying its treasure with a quiet sort of pride. It was like going back three thousand years ago, back to the battlefield where the sword had proven its value, that he yearned to hold it in his hand and relive that memory that had been a victory won for Middle-Earth.

For men. And for Elves.

"It's beautiful," he whispered, his hand shaking too much to pick up the sword.

Elrond reached over his shoulder to take the sword for him, clasping Faramir's fingers gently around it. "A healing for your pride, and to lay my prejudice to rest."

A rush of heartfelt emotion surged through Faramir's body at those words, relishing the feeling of the sword hilt in his hand. It was no longer biting and cold, but warm and comforting like the rays of the rising sun. So new... and fulfilled. A strength and pride unlike any other filled him, and from that time on he felt like he could face anything that the quest would bring for him.

The next moment he found himself facing Elrond, felt himself enveloped in the velvety warmth of his robes and the reassuring embrace of his arms around him. It was as though time had suspended itself on their shoulders, holding the last fragile connection between them in a desperate desire to make it last longer. With a hint of surprise he felt tears sting his eyes - tears for joy and resolve they had finally found, and tears for the sadness of the short time they only had together. He couldn't even be certain if he would come back again.

Taking a shuddering breath, as though to control the intensity of his pounding heart. "My lord, I - " Faramir began, but was cut off when Elrond placed a long finger on his lips.

"Don't," he said softly. "Don't reassure me of your safe return, for even I cannot foresee that." A quiet sort of sorrow befell his eyes. "Don't promise me anything."

"Nay," said Faramir. "Only that I will always hold the memories of your kind close to my heart, and forever will it stay."

_***_

The Fellowship had departed from Rivendell, but Faramir could not find his heart on the quest. He had gazed on the towering crest of the castle one last time, and the image was forever burned into his mind, along with the pressing question if he would ever see it again, bright and alive like the stars every night. He could still feel the sword hilt in his palm, and hear Elrond's words speaking to him, clear as light and as soothing as though he stood right beside him at the moment.

It had given him a strange feeling, seeming to have touched his heart, far from the reaches of reason.

_A healing for your pride, and to lay my prejudice to rest._

Only then did Faramir realize that he had spoken those words in his Elvish language. Though it spoke to his heart and had engulfed his very soul, Faramir couldn't grasp it enough to speak it on his own.

But he knew what Elrond said. And somehow, he had understood.

-Fin-


End file.
